Let It In, Let It Out
by Rahmi
Summary: It's morning already and the king is dead.


_Written for the H/C bingo challenge; it was supposed to be panic attacks, but I think I missed the mark. At any rate, this is vaguely Merlin/Arthur and was set... early season 2, I believe, though it's AU as you'll see. Warnings are for period appropriate name calling (well, appropriate for Merlin at any rate)._

* * *

Merlin doesn't actually find Arthur until he's stopped looking for him. He's not even in the last place Merlin looks because the last place Merlin looks is the stables. He goes up to Arthur's room anyway, with the vague hope that Arthur will return sooner or later.

"I really hope you didn't get kidnapped by an evil troll," Merlin tells Arthur's room. He pauses and tilts his head. "Well, I suppose it's better than being kidnapped by, I don't know, a dragon. More pathetic, though."

Something scrapes under the bed. It sounds an awful lot like one of Arthur's boots. Merlin doesn't know why he recognizes what Arthur's boots sound like scraping on the floor, but there you have it.

He squints suspiciously at the bed. "I'd put more money on the troll princess, actually," he says, "It'd be just like you to get kidnapped by the pathetic option though."

"What have I told you about insulting me?"

Merlin squats down to peer under the bed; Arthur is dusty and sullen and apparently not kidnapped by a troll princess. "Do I want to know why you're under there?" he settles on asking, because if he asks what the hell Arthur is thinking, Arthur will try to throw something at him.

Arthur's eyes turn shifty. "I heard something," he finally says.

"Under the bed?" Merlin raises his eyebrows.

"Yes," Arthur says balefully, "Under the bed, _Merlin_."

"So you heard a noise under the bed," Merlin says, "And you decided to crawl under there in your nightshirt, without your sword, and stay there for long enough that you've got cobwebs in your hair."

"I wouldn't have cobwebs if you were a better servant," Arthur sulks.

Merlin reaches out to pluck the cobweb out of Arthur's hair and sighs. "Morgana is no longer publically celebrating," he offers after a moment.

It's true, at least. She has moved her celebration into her own private quarters, on account of her being so drunk that she tried to preposition the candlestick. Gwen and Merlin had exchanged horrified glances before they hustled her up into her rooms.

It's one thing to celebrate the death of the king. It's another to do it while flirting outrageously with the decorations.

"Thank God for small favors," Arthur says. He tilts his head just slightly, so that it falls out from under Merlin's hand. It also serves to highlight the faint tearstains on his face.

Merlin looks away tactfully and feels his eyes flare gold as all of the fires in the room dampen down to leave it gloomy and grey.

It's morning already and the king is dead.

"I can't do this," Arthur says abruptly. He hunches down further under the bed and attempts to curl into a ball; his shoulders are too wide, though, so he just looks ridiculous, half sprawled on his back and twisted at the hips.

"Can't be a king prat?" Merlin asks, swallowing hard. "It's easy. Just be your usual clotpole self. Everything else will just come naturally."

Arthur's face pulls into its usual confused, pouty lines at the mention of clotpoles. "That's not what I meant," he says.

I know, Merlin thinks. "Are you worried about being an ass, then? I can assure you that you're still an ass, even if you're going to be a kingly one instead of just the prince."

That nets him a small scowl.

"Your face is going to stick like that," Merlin offers helpfully, "And then what will the dignitaries think? Nobody's going to want to marry you if your face is stuck like that."

"Merlin," Arthur says and his voice is so _tired_ that Merlin can't do this anymore.

He reaches out to touch Arthur's neck. "I know," he says. "I know you're scared."

"I am no such thing," Arthur retorts immediately.

"I _know_ you're scared," Merlin repeats. He swipes his thumb through one of the wet marks near Arthur's mouth and sighs.

I know, but you're going to be the best king Camelot has ever had. Uther was just a seat warmer as far as Albion is concerned; Arthur's what the land wants, what the people need, and Arthur is curled up under the bed terrified in a way that sets Merlin's heart aching.

Uther was a terrible king and a terrible father. Camelot has lost hundreds of innocents in the past few years from Uther's vendettas and none of that matters at this moment.

It's morning already and the king is dead. Merlin pulls a little on Arthur's face, just until he slides out of the bed far enough that he can pillow Arthur's head on one of his thighs. It's morning, and Arthur's father is dead, and that's more important to Merlin right now than the fact that the king is too.

"Are you cuddling me?" Arthur asks.

Merlin strokes his hair with his fingertips and says, "Must you be a dollop head all the time?"

"I'm Arthur," Arthur says. He doesn't pull back, though, just slings an arm across Merlin's lap so he can hide his face under it.

"Yes, I forgot that's what that means," Merlin says. Arthur's hair is dusty and faintly sticky with sweat under his fingers; Merlin can feel grime getting stuck under his fingernails. He stares at the wall instead of down into his lap, watching the grey get steadily lighter.

The king is dead.

It is morning, and the king is crying into Merlin's lap with little hitching breaths that break Merlin's heart.


End file.
